


Backlog

by TheImpressario



Series: Tracklist [2]
Category: Insidious (Movies)
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, Mystery, Sequel, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheImpressario/pseuds/TheImpressario
Summary: Specs and Tucker have spent the last six years unraveling Elise's story, but when a friend goes missing they must investigate a lost chapter of her life.





	1. Heat of the Moment

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, Tracklist has a sequel. You can expect a more fast-paced plot than its predecessor. The story will jump back and forth between the present with Specs and Tucker to the past with Elise, Jack, and Carl, all building toward one central mystery. There is a new big bad and a meticulous amount of attention to the Aztec Calender.
> 
> I encourage any new-comers to go back and read Tracklist first. You'll probably need to in order to keep yourself busy between chapter updates.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated and makes me write faster.
> 
> I love writing these characters! It's good to be back.
> 
> Fun Fact: This story begins on the exact same day I got married.

**June 11, 2016**

 

Tucker woke to the sound of a terrifying growl in the dark. He jolted, sweat sticking hair to his temples and heart pounding in his ears. It took a few gravelly, panting breaths to realize the threat was not a demon, but his own sleep apnea. No one could blame him for thinking the former. It was hot as hell. They were already hitting triple digit temperatures this June in Los Angeles. Which is why he was certain he had left the air conditioning _on_ before going to bed. Did Specs turn it off?

 

Half asleep, he stretched out his fingers, feeling for Specs but finding the other side of the bed still neatly made. He must have stayed up to write. Of course he had. In the last six years Specs had published an impressive eleven books, each one more boring to Tucker than the last, but his biography of Elise’s life was an ongoing project that Specs would never be satisfied with, it seemed. He’d recently returned to the manuscript, which meant many nights he wouldn’t even come to bed.

 

Tucker propped himself up on his elbow and checked the time on his phone. 5:47 AM. He briefly considered rolling over and going back to sleep, but the humidity stuck like a pall in the air, leaving him feeling heavy. He harrumphed as he resolved to fix the problem. At the very least he wouldn’t be falling asleep alone again, even if it meant throwing Specs over his shoulder and carrying him back to bed.

 

The floor gave a dull creak when he stepped out of bed and headed down the hallway. Tucker could walk the path to Specs’ office in his sleep, and had, many times, but tonight he found the heavy oak door closed and darkness beyond it. He reached inside to fumble with the antique rotary light switch. A few clicks proved fruitless. That at least absolved Specs of guilt. The power was out, and the air conditioning went with it. He would have to check the breaker.

 

Tucker paused when he reached the bottom of the stairs. The basement door was already open.

 

Elise’s old house lived and breathed with her spirit. Doors yawned and lights flickered. Soft footsteps sometimes traveled around the halls. All were gentle reminders of her protective presence. But the basement was different. If the house reflected the spirit of their kind, comforting mentor, the basement hid all her mysteries and dark secrets. Tucker didn’t think himself particularly sensitive to the paranormal -there were tools for that- but even he preferred to avoid it.

 

“It’s fucky.” He would say.

 

It could be that Specs had gone down there himself. Then again, he hated the basement, as if entering it violated some unspoken rule. He kept the door locked, just as Elise had, and only opened it when his need for research material outweighed his fear of violating said unspoken rule.

 

It could also be that vengeful spirit was looking to get even with Elise and, finding her absent, figured it would settle with the next best thing. Either way, Tucker armed himself with a heavy-duty flashlight that would double nicely as a bully club. It wouldn’t help much for incorporeal threat, but it made him feel better.

 

The sweat on Tucker’s brow chilled as he descended into the basement. The surroundings were familiar: New Guinean funerary tapestries, Bakongo masks, and Victorian spirit photos lined the stairwell. Tucker had found little ways of updating Elise’s home without upsetting Specs over the years, but the basement remained exactly as it had been left, sealed off like a crypt to preserve a moment in time. He gently nudged the bead curtain at the bottom of the stairs open with his flashlight, peering cautiously into the reading room. It appeared undisturbed, all but for one of the curtained off walls, which had been pulled aside to reveal the unfinished storage area behind it.

 

Tucker moved past the reading room table gingerly, with a bounce in his step like anyone moving through a scary basement. He’d faced near death, but some fears were universal. Beyond the curtain was a room stacked with musty cardboard file boxes. They had barely made a dent in half of what Elise kept down here.

 

A quick shuffling noise came from over Tucker’s shoulder, beyond a pile of boxes stacked to the ceiling. He wheeled to the side and pointed his flashlight. The beam of light trembled as he inched backward toward the reading room, until...

 

A pang of shock ran through Tucker when he suddenly felt his body connect with another behind him. He jumped, hitting his head against a low support beam and spinning back against a pile of boxes.

 

“Tucker! Jesus _Christ._ ”

 

Tucker could still feel the blood roaring in his ears when he finally recognized the two beady, LED lights staring back at him. Specs slumped back against a wardrobe in the reading room clutching his heart.

 

“What are you doing down here?” They asked almost simultaneously when both caught their breath.

 

“Flipping the breaker.” Tucker answered gruffly, brushing off his fall. “It’s a million degrees. You know, the power is off.”

 

He wouldn’t put it past Specs not to notice.

 

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.” Specs said, stepping through the open curtain into the storage space and navigating around Tucker. Tucker pointed the flashlight after him to see a little work area in the corner of the room with several file boxes opened and documents spread around, which Specs started to gather up. Tucker directed his light up to the wall beyond Specs to the breaker. Then back to Specs. Then back up to the breaker.

 

“You know you could just…” Tucker began. Specs continued to work. Tucker squinted. “‘K”

 

He took a wide step past Specs and flicked the breaker. The kitchen directly above them beeped as everything kicked on. Light from the reading room spilled in, giving Tucker a better chance to fully take in how crazy his boyfriend looked. He was still in the shorts and t-shirt he wore the day before, sporting sweat stains, dark circles, stress-tousled hair. Tucker could tell Specs was nearing the end of a manic, sleepless night.

 

“Here, help me get this stuff out to the table.” Specs put a box into Tucker’s arms and walked past him. Tucker consented to carrying it as far as a now humming air conditioning vent, where he arched back and basked in the cool, soothing stream. Specs disappeared into the video closet for a moment before returning with a box file of Betamax cassettes and a corkboard.

 

“Do you remember about two years ago?” He asked as he assembled his collection on the reading room table. “I had Elise’s life mapped out from childhood to her enrollment at UA?”

 

“Yeah, I remember you being crazy.” Tucker replied.

 

As if to confirm this analysis, Specs flipped over the corkboard to reveal a madman’s diagram of Elise’s life, complete with red string. Tucker suppressed a smirk. A rant was incoming. He settled on admiring the muscle tone of Specs’ arms while they flailed in expressive gestures, referencing his research like a class presentation.

 

“I had applications, school papers, case files, home videos, letters, even grocery lists up until the summer of 1976. Then the the trail went cold. There isn’t a single scrap of documented evidence she existed from May, 1976 until her graduation in 1978.” Specs began. Tucker opened his mouth to say something, but Specs responded for him: “And you said, ‘ _skip it and move on,_ ’” He mocked his best Tucker voice. “And I _did_ . The thread picks right back up after she graduated. And her record keeping only became _more_ meticulous after that. The stuff in this basement covers her and Jack’s most prolific period of work. We’re talking everything from the Malaysian mass exorcism of 1983 to her most insignificant palm reading, all carefully documented. Her filing system is pretty interesting, actually-”

 

“Ah bah bah bah. The point?”

 

“Right. Sorry. Anyway, I followed the timeline all the way up to the 90’s, and that’s where things get weird again. I realized last night. Look.” Specs handed Tucker a cassette labeled ‘Estrada, 5/21/96’. “The last thing on file is a house blessing in Sierra Nevada, late May, 1996. Then the record just stops and doesn’t pick up again until… 1998, when she and Jack went to Indonesia. Two years completely unaccounted for. _Again_. What happened between 1996 and 1998?”

 

Tucker feigned a searching expression. “ _Beetleborgs_ was on the air.”

 

“What? No. Well, yes- that isn’t relevant.”

 

“Or is it? _Beetleborgs_ premieres, Elise disappears. Show gets canceled, she comes back.”

 

Specs clearly struggled to maintain a scowl past his fatigue. “ _No_. Although you are unintentionally close to the point. I think she meant to disappear for two years.”

 

“Maybe she took a few years off.” Tucker said nonchalantly as he aired out his armpits in beneath the air conditioning vent.

 

“This is Elise we’re talking about. She didn’t stop working until Jack died in 1999.”

 

“True.”

 

“You see the pattern, right?” Specs asked. He pointed to two giant question marks on his timeline. “Elise disappears for two years in 1976, then again, exactly twenty years later in 1996.”

 

Tucker stopped fanning himself. Specs talked about this biography project nonstop, to the point that Tucker had learned to either tune him out or wind him up. Now he was becoming curious despite himself. The pattern _was_ strange.

 

“So what are you trying to find?” He asked.

 

Specs shrugged. “I don’t know. I came down here hoping to find any new leads. Or some kind of sign, I guess.”

 

They exchanged a weary look. They both knew it, and had for weeks now, but neither wanted to be the first to say so. Elise wasn’t contacting them. There had been no clues left out for them to find, no leads, none of the little ways she reminded them she was around. Perhaps if they didn’t acknowledge it she would come back. They always knew the contact they had with her was on borrowed time, but they still weren’t ready for it to end yet.

 

“Did you talk to Carl?” Tucker asked.

 

“I called him last night. He said he couldn’t remember much about 1976. That was right after Elise met Jack. I guess they fell out of touch for a while. He’s going to do some research, see if he can turn up anything from his own records.”

 

Specs knew Tucker’s question had broader implications. Carl could contact Elise, if contact could be made. Likewise, Tucker knew Specs understood the question. They let the subtext speak for itself.

 

Tucker moved close and brought a hand up to ruffle Specs’ hair. “Then maybe you should take a break. Until Carl calls back. You have espresso grinds in your hair and...your ear somehow.”

 

Specs couldn’t hide a grimace. Taking a break would be the right thing to do, but he was on the hook of a good mystery. Waiting was not something he would resign to happily. Tucker was persuasively comfortable though. After years of tormenting Specs with ripped jeans and soul patches he finally began to dress his age, leaning into his hipster dad persona, complete with man bun. There were a few greys in his beard that Specs learned not to call attention to.

 

Tucker suddenly got an impish look in his eye. He cupped Specs’ hand and, without breaking face, slowly lowered onto one knee.

 

“Steven Kowalski-” He began. Specs recoiled in horror.

 

“No no no-”

 

“-will you make me the happiest man in the world-”

 

“Stop. No. Do not propose to me in a basement.”

 

“-by making me breakfast?”

 

Specs squinted. He pulled his hand away and turned his nose up. “No. You get cereal.”

 

Tucker mocked insult as he stood up. “What are you so upset about?”

 

“ _I’m_ proposing to you.” Specs wagged his finger. “I’ve already made several nonrefundable deposits.”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll beat you to the punch.”

 

“You won’t, because I have all my punches scheduled.” Specs pushed his glasses up his nose decisively. They continued to argue as they walked upstairs.

 

Their engagement was a foregone conclusion. Specs wanted to check a little box saying “married filing jointly” and Tucker mumblying expressed his a desire for a traditional wedding, a sweet sentiment he immediately undermined by suggesting they change their last name to “Kowalckley.” All that remained to be determined was the nature of the proposal itself. As with all things between them, it became a competition. Specs took to it with his usual earnestness. Every detail was accounted for in a three inch binder labeled _Proposal, Tucker_ -as if the distinction needed to be made. He started leaving it out in the open to assert himself as the propos- _er_. Tucker, meanwhile, continuously threatened to ask Specs at a random moment, utterly without ceremony. The resulting stalemate had lasted almost a year now.

 

As their debate shifted from marriage to cereal, the phone began to ring. Specs used the landline as their business number, which he connected to a big, red rotary phone in the foyer. Tucker referred to as the Bat Phone. Specs insisted it was part of an effort to work the color red into their brand.

 

“Spectral Sightings.” Specs chirped when he picked up. A hesitant voice responded.

 

“Hello, is this um… Steven Kowalski? From the book?” She asked.

 

Specs smiled. A fan.

 

“ _Kirlian Photography: Interpreting Non-human Auras_ or _Dactylomancy for Beginners_ ? _”_

 

The woman paused, and Specs could hear her shuffling paper as if referencing something on her end. “Um, I’m not sure.”

 

Tucker sidled over and leaned in the door frame, cradling a bowl of Lucky Charms. Specs cupped his hand over the receiver to block the sound of Tucker slurping milk.

 

“What can I help you with?” He asked.

 

“I’m not sure.” She responded. “Someone is missing.”

 

“We can accomodate a session, if you wanted to reach out to someone you’ve lost.”

 

“No.” She rushed to correct him, her nervous voice gaining volume. “He’s not dead. He’s missing. I thought you could-”

 

Specs looked to Tucker, who shrugged. “We’re not really qualified for missing-persons cases. Have you contacted the police?”

 

“No. I can’t do that. You were the one he was talking to about the book.”

 

“I’m sorry, who exactly is this about?” Specs asked, rubbing his temple.

 

“My father, Carl Felt. He’s missing and I think you were the last person he talked to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: there's romance and sex between our protagonists, but if smut is what ye seek, this isn't the best place to find it.


	2. Bad Company

**August, 1974**

 

Carl Felt always knew he was connected to the paranormal. Like any good Catholic boy, he was made perpetually aware of the demons that skulked life’s periphery, waging eternal war over his child-soul. At a young age he expressed a peculiar sensitivity to these forces. He claimed to see things in the shadows, to hear voices.

 

A priest was called. Would he need an exorcism, his parents wondered? Their fears were alleviated. Young Carl was called by God. He had been given a gift, a sort of sight, to identify evil more easily than others. The priest taught him prayers and rites. He reassured the boy that his strong faith protected him from the demons. He told Carl that he was safe because he had a _guardian angel_. And Carl believed.

 

Carl prayed to his angel one night. He simply wanted to know its name. It replied.

 

“Matthias.”

 

That sounded Biblical enough.

 

Carl was a quiet boy. He never gave his parents or teachers trouble. He carried himself with a kind of gentle good-will that made him well-liked among his peers. That he claimed to have a close personal relationship with an angel didn’t alarm anyone. They took it as affirmation that he was the spiritual prodigy his family claimed.

 

The night he asked his angel’s name, he felt a door open, as if the act of being named gave Matthias permission to enter Carl’s world. Carl could never _see_ his angel, but he felt him close. Ironically, he pictured the traditional Faustian iconography of the angel on his shoulder.

 

Matthias taught Carl how to communicate with the beyond. In a trance state, Carl would let the angel guide his hand, conjuring automatic writing with pen and paper, planchettes, or even pointing to words in a book. This method became second nature by adolescence. Carl found he could call dark spirits out from the shadows and question them under Matthias’ authority. Parishioners began to ask him to bless their homes.

 

It seemed only natural for Carl to follow his calling. He entered the seminary at his priest’s behest and soon found himself serving in the campus chapel at Arizona University. By day he supervised the morning prayer, and by night he took appointments as an exorcist.

 

Every so often, he confessed, he felt ashamed that his power seemed to come from Matthias- not his own conviction. But elders reminded him that the angel was his gift. And Carl believed.

 

One balmy summer night, Carl was called off campus to a small mission style house in the Tuscon suburbs. Serving close to the border came with unique challenges for the bright-eyed young priest. Immigrants were particularly fervent Catholics, but that faith was blended with a number of superstitions and cultural traditions. He recalled his first “exorcism” for a Mexican family was nothing more than shooing an owl from the tympanum above their door. It was a witch, you see. Most of these superstitions were apathetically chastened by the church, but Carl found they ranged from harmless ritual to true paranormal phenomena, and his willingness to field these cases made him a favorite among the Spanish speaking population of Tuscon.

 

So it was little surprise when a shuffling old _tia_ answered the door of this next assignment.

 

“Es el Sacerdote.” She said, disappointed as if she expected someone else at the door. She looked him over, dubious of his youthful take on the clerical vestments, which included aviator sunglasses, feathered hair, and flared cotton pants. Given the heat of Arizona summers, Carl felt God could forgive him on this particular matter.

 

Just about when it seemed that the woman wouldn’t let him in, a young man appeared behind her and ushered her away.

 

“Mamá, déjalo entrar.” He said.

 

He was handsome and well-dressed in the way many immigrants needed to be these days. They were held to a higher standard of judgment, unfortunately, and often had to compensate by maintaining an overly professional bearing, especially if they were business owners. Carl recognized the man as Daniel Meza, who owned the laundromat he frequented. They had exchanged several neighborly waves over the year. Daniel greeted him with an embarrassed smile.

 

“Sorry, please come in, father.”

 

“Ah, you can call me Carl.” He insisted.

 

With his first step over the threshold, Carl could feel the energy of the home. Matthias had a way of telling him. It was a firm but gentle pressure on the shoulders- a push down. This is no owl, it said.

 

Carl removed his sunglasses and tucked them neatly into his breast pocket. “Would you mind if I looked around first?”

 

Daniel froze for a moment, then nodded emphatically.

 

Over the phone, he had explained that members of the family individually experienced what they described as a threatening presence. It was at its worst for his mother, who said she felt she was being watched, as if by a predator watching its prey. It was never in one place. One day it would be near the door to the basement or waiting in the garage. The worst place was the hallway. Each time she entered in that hallway, it felt as if something stood at the end of the hall.

 

Daniel was initially skeptical, but then, he wasn’t in the house all day. Recently he came home in the middle of the day- a particularly hot day- to take a shower. His mother and sisters were shopping, and he was alone, but he could feel something watching him from the door, despite it being closed and locked. He listened to hear if the women had come home. He even called their names, with no response. He ignored it and finished the shower.

 

As he was readying to go back out, Daniel felt something watching him again from the hall. Despite being in the clear path of a sunny window, the hallway was shadowy. Daniel heard a rumble, almost a growl, that made him think a dog was in the yard. He checked the back door, but the growl now sounded like it was behind him. In the hallway. He left hastily and called Carl a few days later.

 

Despite the warning energy pushing on his shoulders, Carl couldn’t pinpoint a source of threatening energy as he moved through the living area. He could hear Daniel and his mother continue to bicker in hushed Spanish behind him.

 

“¿Y porqué lo invitaste aquí?" The old woman fussed.

  
“Es un hombre de Dios."

  
  
"Ya llame la Hechicera."

 

"No quiero una bruja aquí."

 

She didn’t want a priest, she wanted a _bruja._ A witch. And apparently one was on the way. Carl groaned inwardly. Kids on campus dabbled with the occult with little understanding of what they were getting into. Some of them advertised palm and tarot card readings in the paper. A way to make much-coveted beer money, nothing more. No doubt one was coming by to smudge a few doorways. It was petty, but Carl suddenly felt compelled to the bless the house in a hurry and get out.

 

He could go through a simple rite and be on his way, but as he walked closer to the hall, he started to feel an angry presence hovering within. The pressure on his shoulders tightened. Carl let himself focus inward. He listened for Matthias to guide him. Letting Matthias lead felt like sitting in the passenger seat. Carl was still present, but Matthias had the wheel. He spoke and moved through Carl.

 

“Why are you here?” Matthias asked in Carl’s voice.

 

A shadow in the hall stirred. It wasn’t a shadow at all.

 

Daniel and his mother fell silent.

 

“I constrain thee to come before the exorcist. Answer.”

 

What answer came could not be understood in human tongues. To the Mezas it would sound like nothing more than a growl. Thankfully they stood behind Carl, otherwise they might see his eyes roll back as he began to write in a small notebook produced from his pocket. As he did, a hint of clarity rang in the back of Carl’s head -a small tactile detail he could cling to- he smelt sulphur. Beyond that he felt the sensation of falling backward. This was common. He likened it to a trust fall. He was letting himself fall back into the arms of his angel. It was a bit like being on a dentist’s nitrous.

 

The call back was like being tapped awake. Matthias tapped his shoulders, almost playfully.

 

Carl looked down at the page before him. It read like a furious homeowner reciting his fourth amendment rights. _You have no right to be here this is my house this is my property you can’t come in..._

 

Carl could practically hear Matthias’ exasperated sigh.

 

“This is no longer your home. It is time for you to go.”

 

The darkness seemed to pulsate down the hall, but it hissed as it got close. Carl didn’t flinch. Spiritually speaking, he was armed to the teeth: a God fearing man wearing a crucifix, carrying a Bible and holy water, with a proper guardian angel looming behind him. The shadow receded down the hall, then disappeared, as if sucked into a vacuum cleaner. It wasn’t gone. It was just trying to slam the door and close the blinds.

 

Carl turned around with a friendly smile. “I’d like to bless the house if you don’t mind.”

 

Daniel deigned to walk through the house with Carl, piping up with ‘amens’ as the father offered prayers of intercession in each room. His mother waited by the window. Soon enough, Carl heard a knock on the front door. Muffled voices traveled through the stucco walls. Young. Perky. A student. Matthias pushed on his shoulders. Probably out of annoyance, this time. They would need to return to the entrance to complete the blessing, which meant Carl would need to bite his tongue and be polite to this _bruja_.

 

She was facing away, feeling the mantle of the door, when Carl entered the room. He felt a pinch in his shoulders. Matthias didn’t care for this one. But when she turned around, Carl thought he might be meeting another angel. She wasn’t fashionable, but she was slim and naturally pretty, with thin blonde hair center-parted and a bright smile.

 

That smile darkened when she noticed Carl. It wasn’t sour. If anything, she seemed startled. A beat passed, then she smiled again, this time forced. “I’m sorry, father. Am I interrupting here?”

 

Carl hesitated. A flutter of anxiety peaked in his chest. He hadn’t been flustered by a woman in a long time. Of course, there weren’t many women in seminary, and something in the way she looked at him was chilly, as if she were disturbed by his presence.

 

“I’m on my way out,” Carl said. He thought he might appeal to her on a professional level. He had more patience for the everyday occultist than most priests. “It would seem there’s an old tenant here who doesn’t want to share the space. I’m just about done blessing the home. Would you pray with us?”

 

She stretched her lips into another wary smile and nodded.

 

Carl began with the sign of the cross. “ _En el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo_.”

 

“Amen.” The others responded.

 

“Peace be to this house and to all who dwell here, in the name of the Lord.”

 

"Bendito sea Dios." They said.

 

Carl glanced up at the sound of the pretty young woman’s voice joining in. She knew her cues. She stayed in step as they recited the Lord’s Prayer. Carl sprinkled the requisite holy water in the room, then on the door, then to each person there. The _bruja_ didn’t hiss or sizzle upon contact. Her lips didn’t burn when Carl produced an icon of the Virgin Mary and had each one of them kiss it. She wasn’t evil, he thought. Probably a well-meaning student who thought she’d burn incense in someone’s home if it made them feel safer. Completely harmless.

 

Normally, he might have stayed longer. The watching shadow had receded, but he knew it hadn’t gone. Carl resolved to return in a few days to renew the cleansing and properly finish the job. In the following days, he justified his desire to leave as nothing more than a proper case of awkwardness. The elder Mrs. Meza didn’t want him there. He’d been interrupted halfway through. And what man could say he hadn’t faltered in front of a pretty woman before? Besides, he had an awful pinch in his shoulders.

 

The woman did introduce herself as Carl gathered his things to go.

 

“Elise.” She said, after asking if he served at St. Thomas. She shook his hand and looked at him in the face. There was shrewd searching look in her eye. “Maybe I’ll visit you there sometime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience. I should be able to return to a normal writing schedule now, so chapters will come more regularly.


	3. Call Me

**June 11, 2016**

 

Specs and Tucker arrived at Carl’s apartment within an hour of receiving the call. His daughter, who reported herself as Danielle, was waiting outside when they got there.

 

Carl lived in a single bedroom apartment attached to the side of a towering Eastlake triplex. The entrance was located on the ground floor at the very end of its long driveway. A small concrete stoop preceded the door. It was cluttered with mismatched planters spilling with herbs. The casual observer might assume the tenant was an avid cook, rather than an avid herbalist. Carl was actually both.

 

Danielle paced in the middle of the driveway, seemingly too occupied with her own steps to notice Specs and Tucker approaching until they were almost to her. She was a petite woman about their age, with brown eyes, olive skin, and a thick black braid slung over her shoulder. More of her mother, it would seem. Her hair was frizzy and pulling out from its style as if she had slept on it, and dark circles had formed under her eyes.

 

Specs and Tucker confessed on the ride over that neither of them knew Carl even _had_ a daughter. Not that he needed to have told them. It did seem odd, though.

 

Specs cleared his throat as they walked up the driveway, which only seemed to startle Danielle.

 

“Danielle?” He asked. He put on a professional smile.

 

She blinked a few times before taking his hand. “Oh are you, um, Ste-”

 

“You can call me Specs. This is Tucker.” Tucker waved. “My partner.”

 

Danielle looked them over without fully making eye contact. They were so used to this semi-embarrassed sort of reticence that it hardly registered anymore. Most people were averse to them when they turned up in matching clothes. They took for granted how out-of-the-ordinary their ordinary was to others. For most people, paranormal shenanigans were a once and done event- the sooner over with, the sooner forgotten. To Specs and Tucker, it was every other Monday.

 

Danielle seemed to be uniquely uneasy, however. She refused to give much detail over the phone. Now that they were here, she quit her pacing and quickly ushered them inside, as if to hide them from the neighbors.

 

Inside the apartment, all the shades were drawn. A single window unit pumped icy air into the small space from above the kitchen counter. Danielle shut the door and flicked on a single ceiling light. Carl’s living space was an open room that shared kitchen, dining, and entertainment duties. He had it decorated in a minimalistic Southwestern style and just as filled with plants on the inside as the outside. When they had dinner together, Specs and Tucker usually invited Carl to their house, but each of them had been to his apartment before for chatting and plumbing purposes, respectively. Their initial impression was that nothing looked out of order. A copy of Specs’ book _Everyday Divination_ sat on the coffee table. Carl had contributed significantly to its chapters on spirit dice and psychography.

 

Danielle stood in the middle of the living room as if to invite them to speak first.

 

“So...” Specs began leadingly.

 

Danielle waited for him to finish. He didn’t. “I told you my father was....”

 

“Missing?” Specs supplied. She nodded. Specs nodded back in an attempt to seem reassuring. He wanted to be professional. Danielle had come to them for help, but her concerns were personal and confusing, and now that they were standing there, she seemed reticent to explain herself without prompting. “When did you last see him?” Specs asked.

 

Danielle flushed. Specs had told her over the phone that he spoke with Carl the night before. No doubt she knew that only nine hours unaccounted for didn’t constitute a missing persons case. She had to have a specific worry in mind, but she struggled to say it.

 

“We were supposed to meet up last night.” Danielle picked up a pillow from the sofa and hugged it over her stomach nervously as she spoke. “He called me around 7:00 for a late dinner, or coffee. He sounded upset. And then he didn’t show up. I tried to call, no answer. So I came here and he was gone.”

 

“There must be a reason you called us instead of the police.” Specs said.

 

She flinched defensively.

 

“I know it's crazy. It hasn't been that long. His apartment is spotless. It doesn't look like he packed a bag. No one is going to believe me if I say he's missing. But I know he does... I know he's-”

 

“Psychic?” Tucker chimed in.

 

Danielle gave a tight nod. Tucker recognized the expression on her face. A combination of judgemental disbelief and embarrassed supplication. She didn’t believe in the paranormal, but she needed something and wanted to be polite. He decided the conversation would be unproductive and tuned out, instead turning his attention to wandering around the room looking for anomalies. Danielle glanced between him and Specs uncomfortably.

 

“I know everything seems normal, but when I got here something was just wrong. He left his keys, wallet, phone.” Danielle walked briskly over to a basket near the door and produced the aforementioned items. She held out the phone to Specs. “I saw you were the last person he talked to before he called me and I remembered him saying he helped you write your books before…”

 

Specs slid his glasses up and propped them on top of his head to look at the phone- he had been stubbornly refusing to acknowledge he needed bifocals for years now. Carl’s call log read:

 

**Steven**

(818) 578 - 8888

←   June 10  6:54 PM

 

**Dani**

(951) 473 - 0193

→  June 10  7:01

 

**Dani**

(951) 473 - 0193

↵  June 10  7:36

 

The missed calls from Danielle repeated for over a period of 40 minutes. Specs furrowed his brow, trying to remember his phone conversation with Carl. Nothing about it seemed unusual. What could have upset him so soon after their call?

 

“He seemed fine when I talked to him on the phone.” Specs handed back the phone. “I asked him to look back at his records, to see if he could fill in some missing information about a friend from college-”

 

“Elise?” Danielle interjected.

 

“Yeah. Did you know her?”

 

“I never met her.” Her knuckles whitened around the phone. She stared at the screen long enough for Specs to notice that Tucker had begun investigating the kitchen, specifically inside the refrigerator. Danielle finally cleared her throat. “I’ll be honest. I don’t see my dad that much. I have my own family now. But last night he talked to you, then called me out of the blue for the first time in weeks and said he needed to see me, before disappearing. I don’t think this is some _paranorma_ l thing,” She said the word like she was holding it away from her nose, “but he believed in it. He believed in it enough that something might have scared him. People don’t just disappear...”

 

Her shoulders slumped in exhausted defeat. It was clear she hadn’t slept most of the night.

 

“I know I have no right to ask you to help with this,” She continued. “but the police will just assume he packed a bag and left. They definitely won't listen about the paranormal stuff. Most people would think it sounds crazy.”

 

Specs nestled his glasses back onto his nose, cleared his throat, and steepled his fingers, conjuring as best he could the paradigm of a savvy, competent investigator. Danielle was nervous and had certain expectations. It might put her at ease to fulfill some of them. He tried not look over her shoulder at Tucker, who had found a pickle jar and was helping himself.

 

“Well, we don’t think it’s crazy, and helping people no one else believes is sort of our thing.” Specs said.

 

Danielle rubbed her forehead and turned away from him looking embarrassed. “I feel ridiculous.”

 

“Your dad is our friend. We’ll do whatever we can to find him.” Specs reached out to pat her on the back, realized this would be awkward, and withdrew his hand. He noticed Tucker, who was halfway through a pickle spear, and shot scolding eyes. Tucker shrugged. He used the pickle to point to Danielle. Specs glared. “Uh, is there anything you can tell us? Anywhere he could have gone or a family member he might be with?”

 

“I sort of called you for the same thing. Honestly, you probably know more about him then I do.” She exhaled a contrite little laugh. “That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?”

 

She couldn’t have known she was preaching to the choir when it came to familial distance. Still, Carl Felt, alienating father? It didn’t track. They had gotten to know Carl better in the years since Elise’s passing, relying on him wherever a proper psychic was required, but also as a friend. He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, and amiable. Specs had grown particularly close with him, enjoying it as his first adult friendship after Tucker. Carl had the right energy to balance Specs out. They usually talked shop but, given their line of work, that talk easily evolved into more serious conversations which gave Specs reason to believe he knew the man well. Carl may have withheld information. Compared to his own tendency to overshare, Specs assumed Carl was in the norm when it came to exercising privacy about his personal life. Yet the man had vanished and his heretofore unmentioned daughter was standing in front of Specs.

 

“We’re gonna find him.” Specs repeated, now to comfort himself. “If we can, I’d like to look around, see if I notice anything out of place.”

 

She nodded, eager to accept the help, and produced a stuffed white envelope. Specs immediately raised his hands and eyebrows in protest.

 

“Oh, no, no-”

 

“Please,” Danielle said, offering the envelope. “I can’t have you spending your time without compensating you.”

 

With as much brevity as Specs had taken to decline to offer, Tucker appeared, ready to accept it. He slid next to Danielle and took the envelope.

 

“- no,” Specs directed at Tucker. “Carl is our friend. This isn’t a job.”

 

“Just to cover any expenses…” Danielle insisted.

 

“Just to cover any expenses.” Tucker echoed. “Gas, time off…” Specs squirmed, nearing surrender. “...snacks.”

 

“ _No-”_ Specs scolded. He gathered himself up in a deep breath and exhaled his concession: “We’ll use what we need to cover gas. Anything left over you’ll get back when we find Carl.”

 

This seemed to satisfy them both. Tucker slipped the envelope into his pocket before returning to his investigation. Danielle, at Specs’ behest, began to gather herself up to leave. She anxiously admitted she hadn’t told her husband why she was staying the night at her father’s. She didn’t want her family involved, and she needed to get back to them.

 

“We have your number.” Specs reassured Danielle as she walked to the doorway. “I’ll let you know when we find anything… and I’ll let you know when we’re not finding anything so you’re not worrying about what we are or aren’t finding… that is, I’ll let you know what we’re doing at all times… not that I’ll be calling you _all_ the time...”

 

Danielle’s brow etched deeper with Specs’ every rambling breath.

 

“We’re on the case.” Tucker summarized. He opened the door for her in a way that straddled the line between polite gesture and rude ushering away.

 

“Thank you so much for your help.” She said one last time before fleeing through the door.

  
“ _Pickles_?” Specs growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support and excitement for this sequel. Unfortunately, I'm going to go on a hiatus from writing it. Life Problems and Other Projects are both getting in the way and I find I don't have time to indulge my fanfiction hobby as much as I did in the past. I'll probably post a chapter here and there over the course of the year, but I won't be publishing regularly as before. <3 to all.


End file.
